The Call of the Long Distance Trail

The Call of the Long Distance Trail

How long distance trails can become embedded in our psyche

I don't know when I first heard about the Appalachian Trail. It seems like I've always known about it, like it was some seed of knowledge that was embedded deep in my psyche before I was even born, but I must have learned about it at some point. Most likely I was just exposed to bits and pieces of information about the trail and so I learned about it piecemeal.

Even the first time I set foot on the trail - on a day hike in Virginia with one of my best friends from college - I hadn't quite grasped the true meaning of the trail. I understood it existed and I understood you could hike it. I even understood that you could thru-hike it if you were crazy enough to love mountains and pain and you disliked showers and soft beds, but I certainly didn't grasp that there was an entire culture of people who lived and breathed the trail.

I even understood that you could thru-hike it if you were crazy enough to love mountains and pain and you disliked showers and soft beds, but I certainly didn’t grasp that there was an entire culture of people who lived and breathed the trail.

The search

I never grew up in an outdoorsy lifestyle other than the sort that comes hand-in-hand with growing up in the rural South: bulky Carhartt camo coats and deer stands and trucks caked in mud.

Even once I started to get absorbed into an outdoors lifestyle I never really had an "aha" moment. All of my understanding of the outdoors and the people who moved through wild spaces has been accrued in bits and pieces, discovered and intuited rather than learned. I never grew up in an outdoorsy lifestyle other than the sort that comes hand-in-hand with growing up in the rural South: bulky Carhartt camo coats and deer stands and trucks caked in mud. I was never exposed to people who geeked out over ultralight gear or put on packs and headed out into the wilderness sans bow or rifle for days, weeks, or months, but somehow I still knew that they existed, and with this inkling I set off to find them.

In many ways I suppose I'm still searching - for those people who share my love and reverence for wild lands, for all the unique experiences and wisdom that wilderness can offer, for that sense of awe and rush of adrenaline that comes with exploring some remote and breath-taking space. Even as I meet more people, connect more widely and deeply with the trails near me, and discover more intimately those truths to be found in the land and in myself, I know that the wilderness is an infinite well of experiences, and so I will always search for more, for something deeper, and when I discover those vague unknowable mysteries - brushing up against them and knowing they are significant without realizing why - I want to share that knowledge and beauty with the world in the hopes that others can find that deep connection, that unsettling-yet-simultaneously-at-peace sort of sensation among the trees or exposed in the plains or looming in the mountains or stretching across a vast and darkening body of water.

I want to share that knowledge and beauty with the world in the hopes that others can find that deep connection, that unsettling-yet-simultaneously-at-peace sort of sensation among the trees or exposed in the plains or looming in the mountains or stretching across a vast and darkening body of water.

The difference now is that I know where to look and how to look. I know the tools I need (and the luxuries I want) and I know how to move in the lands softly, gratefully, and openly - so that I can listen to the vastness of the world, listen to myself, and listen to others.

Restless, wild, and listening.

The call

But as much as the restless wild has permeated me, I realize not everyone else is as familiar with that persistent siren song of the outdoors. How do you teach yourself to listen to it? I don't know, but I suspect at some point you might hear its refrain carried in the throat of some ruby-chested songbird or whispered in your ear as the wind tickles your scalp and tugs teasingly at your hair. Maybe it's the sound of water trickling in a fountain or roaring in the surf. Maybe it's the smell of spring, of a bouquet at the farmer's market that stings your nostrils with floral sweetness and that scent of something else - crisp, untamed, and seductive.

In particular there's something about a long distance hiking trail that has an allure. Each year thousands of hikers embark on a thru-hike of the Appalachian Trail, the Pacific Crest Trail, the Continental Divide Trail, and so many others. The true definition of a long distance trail is subjective - there's no minimum distance required to be considered a long-distance trail although most people seem to agree 30 miles is a reasonable minimum distance; rather, it's thought of in terms of time in that it's a trail that requires multiple days to complete. By this definition a long distance trail might be an epic traverse like the Appalachian Trail that winds through 14 states and takes months to complete, or it might be as short as the Art Loeb Trail in North Carolina that scampers along 30 miles of the Black Balsam mountains.

Either way, tackling a long distance trail is a journey: it is a migration of people, a modern-day quest, and makes each hiker the protagonist of their own "hero's journey" story. We're always seeking that clarity, that sense of self-discovery and self-knowledge, and long distance trails promise some understanding of those secrets as an intimate susurration in the trail's long waving grass and green scattering leaves.

If you hear the call of the wild, chase it. Wild spaces are not just for bearded men with glinting eyes or for teens to steal away to on a weekend unchaperoned. Wild spaces are for you and me

If you hear the call of the wild, chase it. Wild spaces are not just for bearded men with glinting eyes or for teens to steal away to on a weekend unchaperoned. Wild spaces are for you and me, and anyone else who wants to step outside and chase "that flighty temptress, adventure" (J. K. Rowling).

Have you ever hiked a long-distance hiking trail? Or have you ever felt the call of the wild and wanted to explore the outdoors? Let me know in the comments!

That awesome close-to-home hike that beginner and experienced hikers both love

How do I organize a hike that is both interesting for experienced hikers and isn't overwhelming to new hikers? That's a hard balance; I remember being a new hiker when 2-3 miles felt like quite a hike, and I also remembered thinking recently how now my definition of a "hike" is vastly different than what it was a few years ago. How do I reconcile the two and find something that would appeal to everyone?

Standing Indian Loop on the Appalachian Trail: How a myth, a storm, and friendship can electrify your perspective

A long time ago, in the area where Franklin, NC now sits, local Cherokee told a story of a winged beast that swooped down from the skies and stole children. Heartbroken and desperate, the local villagers sent a warrior to the highest mountain to keep watch for the winged monster and to discover its lair. The warrior found the lair, but it was in a place in the mountains inaccessible to humans, so the Cherokee villagers prayed to the Great Spirit for assistance. The Great Spirit heard their pleas and sent thunder and lightning to destroy the winged monster. The lightning scarred the surrounding mountains but the warrior, afraid for his life, tried to abandon his post. To punish his act of cowardice the Great Spirit sent a bolt of lightning to the mountain summit, leaving a bald and turning the warrior to stone. From that day forward the mountain was called Yunwitsule-nunyi which means "where the man stood."

Today we call it Standing Indian Mountain. The bald is still there, as well as the rock scars on the sides of the nearby mountains, but the rock shaped like a man is crumbling, forgotten to all except those that know to look for it.

Clingmans Dome to Jockey's Ridge: 680 miles of trail and over 500 miles of connecting roads

It's always a surprise when I stumble across the Mountains-to-Sea Trail. This summer I will have lived in North Carolina for twenty years and through this whole time the Mountains-to-Sea Trail has been like an old friend who keeps popping up again - someone I knew and liked throughout my life but never got to know intimately even though we share interests and keep rubbing elbows over the years.

The Risks and Responsibilities of Writing about the Outdoors

My post on Wednesday was originally intended to provide information about long distance trails - specifically the Appalachian Trail and Mountains-to-Sea Trail - as an introduction for those unfamiliar to long-distance hiking, but a post just vomiting facts and metrics is no fun. Hence, the post on Wednesday turned into a passionate romanticization of long-distance trails. But as much as I wax poetic about the outdoors, I also feel a bit of guilt: I wonder if romanticizing the outdoors does it a disservice - that I am dismissing the dangers of the wilderness, downplaying the difficulty of the trail, or even encouraging others to find these beautiful spaces and disrespect or even defile them - intentionally or not - with cairns, graffiti, trash, or even just a proliferation of tourists with selfie sticks. An influx of people chasing selfies in exotic places for the sake of social media likes frequently brings up the debate regarding sharing the location of scenic spots - do you share the secret and risk it being overrun, or do you risk being a snob and keep your favorite places hidden?

How long distance trails can become embedded in our psyche

I don't know when I first heard about the Appalachian Trail. It seems like I've always known about it, like it was some seed of knowledge that was embedded deep in my psyche before I was even born, but I must have learned about it at some point. Most likely I was just exposed to bits and pieces of information about the trail and so I learned about it piecemeal. Even the first time I set foot on the trail - on a day hike in Virginia with one of my best friends from college - I hadn't quite grasped the true meaning of the trail. I understood it existed and I understood you could hike it. I even understood that you could thru-hike it if you were crazy enough to love mountains and pain and you disliked showers and soft beds, but I certainly didn't grasp that there was an entire culture of people who lived and breathed the trail.

You all know I L-O-V-E a good goal or challenge, from running streak challenges, writing streak challenges, year-long goals, monthly goals, and everything in between. My pea-sized attention span needs something to latch onto and tackle to prevent me from jumping around from one shiny thing to the next (oooh shiny!) And while the challenges I tackle tend to be oriented around a personal goal - be a better writer/runner/hiker/biker/climber/person/etc. - I can enjoy watching a good fad challenge like the next person who is bored at work (I mean...stuck in traffic. No no I mean waiting in line at the coffeeshop! That's the one.) Remember the Ice Bucket Challenge? Or the Mannequin Challenge? Or even the Harlem Shake Challenge? Ah, good times. But I do draw the line at certain challenges - like the recent Tide Pod Challenge. Here are my votes on challenges to avoid and challenges to tackle (spoiler: they involve the outdoors, shocking!)

Waterfalls abound on 5 mile hike outside Morganton, NC

I am still trying to catch up on sleep after this weekend. I always strive to be the type of person who gets up early in the morning and is bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and ready to tackle the world, but in reality I'm at my best energy levels sometime after 8pm and before 5am. I have a friend who is the same way and she calls us "morning owls" - fighting our natural circadian rhythms just to get a little more mileage into our days. So with that in mind, Saturday morning was an eeeeearly morning for me. I woke up at 5am and had to force myself out of bed, all groggy and groaning and rubbing crusty sleep from my eyes. I'd already woken up early the day before for a pre-work climbing session, so two early mornings in a row was hella hard. But the mountains were calling, and I had a date with a meet-up group.

Exploring trails at private mountain retreat in the snow

This recent snow from the "bomb cyclone" or whatever cute name we're supposed to call it calls to mind the trip McCrae and I made to Bullhead Mountain a few weeks ago. It had snowed a few days before we drove up to a small town outside Boone to stay at a mountain cabin owned by McCrae's uncle and aunt, and in the morning when we pulled on our warmest hats and coats the drifts lay deep in the mountain shadows.

I was going through the backlog of hikes I planned on posting on the blog, and I was shocked to discover that I did this Durant Nature Preserve hike in September! I am seriously that behind on posts, and I'm also amazed at how quickly this fall has disappeared.I met my dad early one morning in September for a Sunday stroll in Durant Nature Preserve in north Raleigh. I'd seen signs for it off Capital Boulevard every time I went to to the WRAL soccer park complex, and finally curiosity got the best of me and I decided to check it out.

If you're thinking of hiking up Slickrock Creek Trail in the Joyce Kilmer-Slickrock Wilderness, I have some advice for you: don't do it.

I'm pretty sure that hike was the most miserable hike of my life. I'm also pretty sure I'm going to have scars from that hike. The trail was completely overgrown with rhododendron and blackberries and briars and my legs looked like they were the loser in a fight with some barbed wire. My arms weren't much better and I think my feet will never forgive me for that day.